


Storm's Coming

by Stormvoël (BushRat8)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Anxiety, Danger, F/M, Stormy Weather, a letter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-04-19
Packaged: 2019-04-24 21:38:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14364219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BushRat8/pseuds/Stormvo%C3%ABl
Summary: The innkeeper is thrilled to receive an unexpected letter from Barbossa informing her that he's headed home.  She makes preparations to receive him and looks forward to their time together, but bad weather makes a mess of their plans.





	Storm's Coming

**Author's Note:**

> Sea shanties are more generally associated with the 19th century, but for the sake of the story and a bit of nautical color, I've backed them up to the 18th. I like to think that Barbossa, as a man who has worked on every part of a ship since his youth, would know and be able to sing them all :-) 
> 
> There are notes about mail in the 18th century — and a couple more topics — in a postscript.

 

 

 

 

-oOo-

 

 

 

 

 

"Missus!"  Cora shouts, bringing the innkeeper running from the kitchen.  "Missus, you got a visitor."  
  
It's the port's postmaster — a man she usually sees in his role of apothecary — and he extends a letter to her.  "What is it?"  she asks, afraid to take it.  
  
He smiles.  "Don't know;  I don't make a habit of readin' other people's mail.  But it ain't gonna bite, I don't think."  
  
After giving him a silver coin and an orange heavy with juice in thanks for bringing it all the way up the hill, the innkeeper examines the writing telling her name and where she might be found.  There's a blue seal with an ornately imprinted HPB which she carefully breaks open;  then, unfolding the smooth vellum — there are a few faint graphite marks of what look like calculations in the margins;  obviously, Barbossa doesn't waste a single piece of anything as valuable as writing paper just because it's been used a bit — she begins to read the spiky, closely-spaced script.  
  
  
_My good Dove —_  
  
_Within the next fortnight or so from the time I write this, if fortune should smile upon my intentions, I shall be coming home to you.  I've business to conduct, as always, but I do hope it will please you to have my company for at least three weeks before I must put back out to sea.  We have seen much action and I am in sore need of a thorough rest, as is my crew, which is why I plan to be so long ashore;  and I have a most especial yearning for the care I may find at your hands.  So set my place at the table, turn down the quilt upon our bed, and have a warm bath waiting, for I do intend to have all the enjoyment I can in every minute of settling into our household for my visit._  
  
_I have a request for what you shall put on the table for my first supper, sweet:  for the longest time now, I have hungered for a fat, well-browned capon, its flesh seasoned with peppercorns, rosemary, and quantities of the sharp juice from lemons and limes.  It is a dish as only you can make properly;  one which resides in my memory from our earliest acquaintance, and that I recall with delight whenever I think of you hard at work in your kitchen, pink of cheek from the heat and smiling at me when you chance to look up.  Indulge this want of mine, I beg of you, and know that it will satisfy me in more ways than any mere quieting of a grumbling stomach._  
  
_It will be but a little while until I arrive, so do not worry yourself, and put aside any fears you may have on my account, for I am well and unharmed, as you will see._  
  
_My darling girl, I do pray this missive finds you in good health and your house prosperous, and that you desire my return as much as I long to see you._  
  
_I remain ever and always, your affectionate H.B._  
  
_P.S.  If you would put on your blue velvet gown when I arrive, and take your hair down from its cap, it will give me great happiness and pleasure to see you thus arrayed._  
  
  
Pressing the letter to her bosom, the innkeeper imagines Barbossa sitting in his cabin, quill in hand, composing his words to her, and a tear rolls down her cheek as she thinks of the thoughts running through his head;  the same thoughts that have run through hers every day he's been away.  "I remain ever and always yours,"  she whispers, kissing the paper.  "Always and forever, my love."  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Between chores that need doing at Grantham House, the innkeeper tidies her room for the man who is coming to call.  The floor gets a scrubbing, as does the bathing tub;  the iron bedstead is carefully wiped down before being dabbed with white paint wherever it might have chipped off;  the mattress cover is laundered, stuffed with clean straw, and neatly made up, with an extra set of fresh sheets placed in the armoire;  and the quilt is first beaten of any dust, then washed, dried in the tropical sunshine, and fluffed.  All the oils and salves Barbossa enjoys are topped off in their bottles and jars;  and even the chamber pot gets a soaking in vinegar to freshen it and make it sparkling clean, after which the innkeeper cuts a tall stack of extra-large, soft linen squares to set beside it.  It's a small thing, those squares;  and, while the reason for needing them isn't something she'd ever talk about, she does know that — like soap — they're a small, necessary comfort Barbossa might wish for but rarely has while at sea.  
  
It makes her smile to think of her Captain coming home to find this bedroom spotless, well-stocked, and in readiness just for him.  
  
Then there's the half-suit that Barbossa keeps folded in the armoire next to the innkeeper's special-occasion gowns — just a shirt, black breeches, and a somber dark grey brocade waistcoat;  no coat — and she touches each garment, imagining him putting them on.  While she finds him stunning when turned out in full captain's regalia, there's something even more beautiful about him clad in modest, ordinary clothes;  and to be the one to dress him… that's a privilege.  "There, now,"  she'll say as she gives him the intimacy of crouching before him, tying the cuffs at his knees, then straightening up to fasten his silver waistcoat buttons.  "All fixed up."  
  
If she only knew it, Barbossa's grin as he watches her in those moments is that of a husband appreciating the kindness of a solicitous, loving wife.  
  
The innkeeper surveys her room once it's immaculately clean and neatened to her liking, and decides it will meet with Barbossa's approval.  She'll be sleeping in one of lodging rooms until he arrives so it will remain that way.  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Barbossa sniffs the air and frowns.  "I don't like it,"  he growls.  "Somethin's comin';  somethin' more'n an ordinary storm, an' it's comin' fast.  I can feel it."  
  
The men never argue when Barbossa gets one of his gut feelings about the weather, as he's proven himself time and again to have an uncanny sense of something disastrous being on the way.  When he sends his riggers aloft to take in sail, they move twice as fast as they usually do, but even that isn't fast enough this time when the wind abruptly turns to a gale and threatens to send them all blowing into the wild grey sea.  "Leave 'em be!"  he shrieks, though his t'gallants are only half-furled.  "Get yer hairy arses down on deck!  Now!"  
  
He's not letting his riggers stay up there unless he wants to lose them.  
  
Barbossa never forgot the first time he saw that happen.  He'd been newly advanced to the rigging crew and was sent aloft in a terrible blow;  it was too late to take in sail, but the captain had insisted that it be done anyway.  The man perched next to young Hector was plucked from the t'gallant yard by a sharp rush of wind;  he'd watched with horror as his mate was dashed to the deck below, and swore it would never happen once it was he who claimed the title of captain.  He couldn't keep to that vow, of course — he's lost men because all captains, pirate or no, are at the mercy of tide and weather, and have to take risks;  otherwise, they might as well stay on land — but he's always known when he just can't push his luck any further.  
  
And he knows it this time, too, with the _Black Pearl_ scudding before the wind and himself hanging grimly onto the wheel as the waves wash over the deck, for he trusts no one else to stand storm watch.  If they're going to break apart and capsize, then he'll not foist the responsibility for their fate off on anyone else.    
  
Barbossa can feel every plank of the _Pearl_ straining against the waves;  is deafened by the wind;  is reminded sharply of Calypso's maelstrom against which he once fought… only this is worse.  His hat and weapons remain warm and dry in his cabin — no point having his favorite chapeau blow off his head or be encumbered by a sword and pistol he doesn't need — but his coat and breeches are waterlogged and four times their usual weight.  
  
The muscles of his legs are tensed and his feet in the soft shoes he seldom wears grip the deck.  It's a good thing he took off his cuffed boots and left them in the chest in his cabin, or else they'd be filling up with water.  
  
_Calypso_ ,  Barbossa prays silently as he feels his back and shoulders cramp with the effort of keeping the _Black Pearl_ steady.  _Calypso, m' Dove's a-waitin' for me on land.  Don't let her be waitin' in vain…_  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
Grantham House being set on the top of a hill, there is far less chance of flooding, even from the heaviest of rains, but it's still exposed to the winds, so the long-ago builder added heavy shutters to protect the windows and doors.  "Get off your arse and start closing them!"  the innkeeper snaps at Cora.  "Either that, or go down into the town and risk drowning with everyone else!"  
  
In the end, and though Cora does close one shutter, the innkeeper is forced to enlist the aid of her three lodgers, who are happy to help in return for a gold piece each taken off their bills;  and they know they'll be in one of the safer places by staying rather than returning to their ships, for it's far too late to outrun the storm.  "I know mains'l yards as don't weigh as much!"  one of them grunts as he muscles a pair of shutters into place, then bolts them.  "But 'tis a good idea, these, an' no lie."  
  
"I don't know whose idea it was,"  the innkeeper replies as she's rolling up a carpet, lest it be soaked and ruined if the rain comes in,  "but those shutters have saved my windows forever.  Thank you for helping me."  
  
"'Tis nothin', missus."  
  
"If the weather gets too bad, I'll have to douse the kitchen fire, so I hope you don't mind a cold supper."  
  
"If it be anythin' like th' rest of yer food, 'twill be a fine thing anyway, cold or hot."  
  
"Thank you."  The innkeeper's trying to let the ordinary talk distract her from her fright — that Barbossa is caught in the storm and fighting against it;  that he's in mortal danger and may never come back — but it's not helping much.  "May I ask a question?"  
  
"'Course, missus."  
  
"Do you know a ship called the _Black Pearl_ and her captain?"  
  
The man's sandy eyebrows go up.  "Ain't nobody _don't_ know 'em, or run into 'em.  Barbossa, her cap'n…"  He eyes the innkeeper, seeing the anxiety on her face.  "He's prob'ly th' only man what could ride out this kind of weather:  th' very devil at th' helm, is he;  knows ev'ry splinter of a ship from keel t' truck, an' that's afore sayin' he's a sailor fit t' best Satan's own blow.  Why?  You know 'im?"  
  
The innkeeper's caught by surprise, and she blushes.  "Umm… he, uh… I…"  
  
Well, that answers that.  "Say no more,"  the lodger says, holding up a hand and grinning. "He's a lucky one, is that old blue-eyed bastard, if it's you he's got."  
  
Perhaps it's the 'blue-eyed' that does it, but the innkeeper bursts into tears.  "I'm sorry,"  she sniffles when the man hesitantly pats her hand.  "He sent a letter;  he should be here…"  
  
"A letter, is it?  Wouldn't ha' thought 'im th' letter-writin' type…"  Another pat.  "Well, don't you worry, missus.  Word has it that old Barbossa's always one to keep a bargain;  he'll be here."  
  
  
  
  
-oOo-  
-oOo-  
  
  
  
  
It's one of the worst storms the island's ever experienced:   boats in the harbor are wrecked, low-lying houses flood and those closest to the beach wash away, rocks and coconuts dent walls as they're flung against them, some roofs collapse, trees fall, palm fronds fly everywhere, and there will be plenty of damage to repair.  But the innkeeper's not thinking about that when all she can see in her mind is Barbossa struggling against wind and wave, and she prays he'll be able to guide the _Black Pearl_ around the storm instead.  
  
And so he would have wished, but he's calling on every last ounce of strength he has to keep the _Pearl_ from capsizing and all souls on board alive.  He's lashed himself to the wheel;  good thing, too, or he'd have long since been washed overboard.  
  
Barbossa has gone from praying to cursing;  so loudly that it's the one thing that can be heard above the wind and crashing waves.  "It may be m' lot t' die at sea,"  he screams,  "but not yet!  Not yet!  Not without one last chance t' go home!"  He thinks of the letter he sent to the innkeeper;  imagines her reading it;  tries not to think of how distraught she must be.  
  
He's wet and freezing, and wants nothing so much as to feel the heat of the innkeeper's arms around him.  As much as any sailor, Barbossa understands the goal of making it safely to shore after a long voyage… and this one's been too long and too hard.  
  
Another large wave rolls over the deck, nearly knocking him off his feet.  Save for one man tethered and standing ready to help him at the wheel should it pull too strongly for him to handle, the rest of the crew is below decks, and their absence makes him more nervous than he'll admit.  A ship has a crew, and not to see it is unnatural and frightening.  
  
_Fuck that!!_   Barbossa snaps furiously to himself.  _The_ Pearl _bain't a ghost ship;  am I some sprat what's unnerved 'cause her crew's hidden below an' not afore me eyes?_  
  
Hour after hour he holds on, trying not inhale too much water, either salt or rain, until it turns to night and he has no idea how much longer he can keep going.  But to be a helmsman is Captain Barbossa's highest calling, and damned if he'll give up now;  not when his ship and crew are at stake, and never mind the woman who must be frantic with worry for him by now.  
  
He does the only thing he can think of:  he begins to sing, in an effort to drown out the storm and bolster his courage.  He calls out every chant he knows —  short haul, halyard, capstan, pumping — over and over, in rhythm with the wind and the slap of the waves, daring them to stop his voyage short of his destination.  He sings and he swears, he swears and he sings, and pays no attention to the terrified sailor clinging to the mast at his shoulder.  "I'm Hector-fuckin'-Barbossa,"  he shouts.  "No little breeze'll blow me off course, an' no little swell'll capsize me ship!  Ye hear me?"  
  
By the time light dawns, with the seas beginning to calm and the wind finally lessening, he has to hold onto the wheel just to remain upright.  "Take her,"  he tells a man who's just come up to assist,  "while I find out where we are."  
  
Thankfully, they're not as far off course as all that, and,  "Day an' a half t' port,"  Barbossa announces.  
  
But it's the longest day and a half of their lives, and by the time they reach the island, it's decided that there will be no offloading of cargo;  not when Barbossa and his men are so far beyond exhausted that they can barely stand up.  All that remains is for him to decide on those few who will stay aboard for the moment, to go ashore later;  then he's into the nearest cockboat and headed for his refuge.  
  
Barbossa doesn't realize how shattered his nerves are until he tries to grip the iron handle on the inn's front door and sees how his hands are shaking;  feels an unaccustomed, unpleasant quivering within his chest.  "Dove!"  he calls, the single word cut off by a round of coughing.  
  
The innkeeper's there before he can repeat himself.  "You're soaked!"  she cries as she takes in Barbossa's dripping clothes and flattened hat feathers.  "How long have you been like this?"  
  
"Don't fuss, woman,"  he chides her.  "I'm a sailor;  I spend most of me life wet t' th' skin."  Then he looks down at the spreading puddle he's standing in.  "Though I don't think it be doin' yer fine floors much good."  
  
The innkeeper can do nothing about his permanent state of sogginess aboard the _Pearl_ , but he's ashore now, and in her care.  "Cora!"  she hollers.  "Cora, warm up two sheets, and don't you dare let them burn!"  
  
Cora doesn't much like doing things for Barbossa — and that's exactly what this is — but for once, he's not the one giving the orders.  "You want me to bring them up?"  
  
The innkeeper couldn't care less what Cora likes or doesn't;  all she cares about is getting Barbossa dried and warmed and safely into bed.  "Aye… and bring a large cup of hot lemon water, too.  Use my big china tankard and put a spoonful of honey and two… no, three measures of red wine in it."  She thinks for an instant.  "And an empty washbasin, and a few rags."                         
  
She mounts the stairs, her arm slipped through Barbossa's elbow, and leads him to their room, where she denudes him of his boots, weapons, and clothing, rubbing his skin dry with the bed's counterpane, as there's nothing else at hand.  "So what?"  she says when he begins to protest that her bedding is clean, but he isn't and where's his bath?  "You'll have a bath later once you're rested and warm, and have a solid meal in your belly.  Meantime, I can change out the bedding easily enough, so sit down and pull the quilt around you unless you want to display all your… uh… endowments to Cora."  
  
Right on cue, there's a knock, and Cora comes trooping in without waiting for an answer, basin and rags under one arm, sheets over the other and a mug in her hand.  "Your sheets, missus, and the lemon water."  This isn't the first time she's accidentally seen a bit more of Barbossa than she should, and she lingers in the room for a few seconds after putting everything down, insolently staring at him and hoping he might open the quilt clutched around his waist so she can _really_ have a look.  
  
The innkeeper is in no mood for this, and,  "Out!"  she snaps, hard put not to petulantly stamp her foot.  "Go get me a basin of warm water, a sponge, and a fresh slice of soap from the pantry, and leave it outside the door!"  
  
Barbossa wants to laugh at the innkeeper's jealousy over Cora's ridiculous behavior, but he knows these past days have worked hard on her, and he'll hurt her feelings if he does.  "Ah Dove, cease yer worryin',"  he says gently once Cora's gone and she's wrapping him in the toasty linen sheets.  "Even were she presented on a jeweled golden platter, I wouldn't bother wi' that little nothin' of a chit…"  
  
Another bout of coughing interrupts his words, and the innkeeper reaches for the mug of wine-dosed lemon water.  "Here, drink this;  it'll help the catarrh.  How do you feel?  I think you might have a bit of a fever…"    
  
"D' ye want me t' drink or talk?"  It comes out more snidely than Barbossa intends, and he catches the innkeeper's wrist before she can move out of his reach, urging her to sit beside him.  "Look, I know ye were afeared that somethin' terrible happened when I didn't show up, sweet, but I'm here now."  More coughing, and he falls over on his side, pressing his face onto her lap until the spell passes.  
  
"Drink it while it's still warm, Hector,"  the innkeeper says, poking a fingertip into his back.  
  
"Stop it, woman, I bain't sick!"  Barbossa sits back up and puts on his grouchy face, but still, he swallows down half the hot liquid, finding it a tasty remedy that goes a fair way toward helping him to breathe easier.  Another sip, and he has to hawk a few times into the empty basin, wiping his mouth with a rag before he lies back.  "Don't s'pose ye'd lie aside me now, eh?  Warmed sheets be a fine comfort, true, but have naught t' compare 'gainst yer own warmth."  The grouch gives way to a faint smile.  "Come now, Dove.  Even in th' midst of th' blow, I were thinkin' of how soft ye'd feel in me arms an' can wait no longer."  
  
"It's a wonder you get anything done then, if that's all you think about,"  the innkeeper comments, toeing her slippers off, then stretching out alongside him, her body curved to fit his.  
  
"Oy,"  Barbossa whispers.  "Weren't thinkin' ye'd have all these clothes on."  
  
He might be grimy, but he smells deliciously of seawater and sweat, with just a soupçon of pitch and faint sprinkling of black powder;  not a combination that the innkeeper could possibly resist, so her clothes follow her shoes onto the floor.  "Better?"  she asks.  
  
She has her own special fragrance as well;  one Barbossa breathes in from her cleavage, her neck, her hair, pressing one soft, chaste kiss to her lips before giving way to uneasy laughter and a brief clashing of tongues.  "Devil did his best t' drown me,"  he sighs, kneading her breasts with both hands, his thumbs sliding across her nipples,  "but th' gent upstairs must've decided it weren't fair t' go through all that trouble wi' th' letter an' then not come home..."  
  
"Don't joke about it,"  the innkeeper says nervously.  
  
But,  "Not jokin'."  Barbossa wraps both arms around the innkeeper and holds her as tight as he can.  "Ne'er that."  
  
There's a slight commotion outside when Cora comes back with the water and soap, but Barbossa's reluctant to let the innkeeper go to fetch it.  "It's just for a moment,"  she murmurs.  "I want to get the salt off your skin, that's all.  You'll feel so much better without the irritation, and I'll give you a proper bath later."  
  
"Mm…"  Before he relents, Barbossa nuzzles her neck and tells her,  "Ye're a sweet woman, Dove.  So sweet…"  
  
He's nearly dropped off into a disturbed sleep once the innkeeper finishes sponging and drying him, though not so much that he doesn't remember to take hold of her arm and draw it around his waist as she lies down again and presses herself against his back.  She doesn't say anything aloud as she settles against him, but Barbossa can feel the way she's trembling;  feels clearly her lips moving against his spine in the silent words she's afraid to say:  _"I love you, Hector.  I love you so much.  Love you.  Love you…"_  
  
He cannot say them, either, but Lord, how he needs the feeling of them being mouthed against his skin;  needs it so much that a tear dribbles down the side of his nose and drips onto the pillow.  "Dove,"  he whispers voicelessly.  "Dove…"  
  
The nightmares assail Barbossa throughout the night:  rogue waves choking and battering him as he feels control of the wheel wrested from his hands;  the crack of the _Pearl's_ masts splintering into the sea;  the sight of his life rushing before him as he drowns.  
  
An hour or two before dawn, the horror of the dreams overcomes him and he scrambles from the bed to slump at the window, sweating heavily and retching out his fear.  
  
The innkeeper, awakened, knows better than to intrude on these feelings that Barbossa doesn't want her to see, and so lies quietly, waiting, wishing she could help, but knowing that the best help she can give is just to be there to hold him when he returns to lie beside her, saying nothing until he's ready to talk.  
  
Presently, his stomach emptied, Barbossa takes a swig of water out of the washstand jug, sloshing it noisily around in his mouth and spitting it out the window with a disgusted sound.  Though such sickness never takes him after a battle, a bad storm is an entirely different thing;  perhaps because he has no control over it save to call on a lifetime of seaman's knowledge and hope for the best.  
  
He doesn't like that kind of hope;  a hope so desperate that it's humiliating to a proud man like him.  
  
Barbossa puts a hand over his midsection, daring it to revolt again;  then, once assured that it's settled, he goes back to bed where the innkeeper kindly pretends that she never knew he was gone.  He says nothing, but drinks in her warmth and the feeling of calm shelter he finds with her.  _Oh, Dove_ ,  he sighs, kissing her shoulder and nestling close.  _'Tis a safe harbor ye offer me, m' darlin', an' always have…_  
  
He falls back asleep, and this time, the bad dreams don't touch him.   

 

 

  
  
-oOo-  FIN  -oOo-

  
  
-oOo-  Author's Musings and Notes  -oOo-

 

 

  
  
Mail during this period was sent everywhere by numerous means:  by horseback, via ship, on foot.  Barbossa's letter was relayed by ship when he gave it to a captain he knew and more-or-less trusted, who then delivered it to the man acting as the port postmaster.  
  
This was an era during which letter-writing was a fine art for those, like Barbossa, who were literate;  there were numerous rules for social correspondence, but he ignored most of them as he was writing strictly from the heart, concentrating instead on the language conveying what he most wanted to say.  Although of necessity he had to use whatever paper might be at hand — in this case, a mostly-clean vellum sheet cut from the back of his leather-bound ship's log — his message was not a hasty, slap-dash scrawl, but a carefully-composed personal document meant to be kept and treasured for a lifetime by the innkeeper;  and, though we might find them stilted today, both its salutation and close were exceptionally intimate.  The letter would have been done in his best handwriting, neatly folded and addressed (being concerned with appearances, he might have used the equivalent of a bone folder to make sure the creases were straight and sharp), and the whole sealed with his favorite blue wax;  a thoughtful, heartfelt expression of loneliness, hope, and — though, as ever, he does not use the word — love.  
  
Barbossa describes the innkeeper's signature poultry dish in great detail.  This would not be unusual.  Many men who had the means to enjoy fine food were well-acquainted with the ingredients used to make it, and he was more than usually familiar with this one.    
  
Just a reminder in case you haven't read GETTING TO KNOW YOU:  the "HPB" imprinted into the sealing wax stands for Hector Peran Barbossa.  Peran is the patron saint of Cornwall, from whence Captain Barbossa hails.  His monogram is not on a signet ring (although I imagine he probably uses his very identifiable lion's-head ring for spur-of-the-moment seals);  instead, it is a heavily-engraved bronze disc with a polished wooden handle, and would have been custom-made for him.  
  
Unless it was in a large city, the position of postmaster, while being one of responsibility, was a secondary occupation, and a person's "day job" could be anything else.  In this case, the island's apothecary both delivers the few letters that come in, and gives out to [legitimate, not pirate] ship's captains any outgoing mail.    
  
Despite his protests of not being sick, Barbossa came ashore with a case of bronchitis;  hence, the heavy coughing, congested lungs, the gunky build-up of mucus in the throat ( _catarrh_ — which is why the innkeeper knew to give him the basin to spit into), and low-grade fever.  Between constant cold, wet living conditions, the nonstop bellowing of orders (it's in his nature to shout), and constant exposure to other men with various types and degrees of upper respiratory infections, it's probably recurrent, if not chronic.  It would certainly explain the peculiar low scratchiness of his voice.  
  
Storm watch at the helm was so physically and psychologically wearing that it was normally stood for no more than an hour, and often much less.  Only an extraordinary helmsman with a great deal of stamina, like Barbossa, would stay on watch for any serious length of time, facing down the kind of gigantic waves that could easily wash him overboard (which is why he wisely roped himself to the wheel).  
  
If the storm was exceptionally violent and long-lasting — if it was such a high gale or hurricane that there was every likelihood that it could break the ship apart — it's not surprising that it would give rise to what came over Barbossa once it abated:  a delayed feeling of absolute terror that made itself felt in nightmares and an acid, upset stomach.  He's a courageous, battle-hardened man, but out of everybody in _Pirates of the Caribbean_ , he's probably the one with the least wish to die and the greatest awareness of the mortal risks he faces due to rough weather and stormy seas (in spite of his "Dying is the day worth living for!" which was more of a battle cry than anything else, and I doubt he really believed it).  Having survived a storm so terrible that it had him nearly convinced he was a dead man, he'd certainly not be immune to sudden, extreme emotions when it sank in how close he came to being exactly that.  


End file.
